Mona and Mr. Deatherage had traveled for several days when they descended from a train onto a platform on the newly opened Union Terminal in Cincinnati. Mona was astounded at the size of its rotunda and the gleaming mosaics adorning the walls.
“This was built during the Depression?” she gasped.
“Amazing, isn’t it? The dome of the rotunda is 106 feet high. The murals are made of glass tiles. The two main murals represent the history of the United States and of Cincinnati. The others represent industry in Cincinnati.”
“The murals are unbelievable. They even compare to the great works of art I saw in Mesopotamia. The ancient peoples there liked to work with glazed bricks—reminds me very much of these mosaics.”
“The entire station can accommodate seventeen thousand people and over two hundred trains a day.”
They stood back-to-back admiring the larger than life glass murals on the walls while throngs of passengers and porters either disappeared down the sprawling concourse or hurried outside to catch a cab.
“If you appreciate this, wait until you see the hotel I’ve booked us into—the Netherland. It’s decorated in Art Deco and is stunning,” Mr. Deatherage stated, trying to ignore the curious stares of people who gaped at Mona’s attire. She was wearing tight ankle-length black pants with a white shirt accompanied by a short black and red jacket and black ballet slippers. A beret adorned her head. She looked like a confused French matador.
Mr. Deatherage had struggled with Mona’s choice of attire on the trip, especially once they got out of New York. The other women on the train were dressed to the nines, but Mona’s eccentric clothes were far too attention getting. In fact, a little boy on the train asked Mona if she was from the circus. The exasperated attorney gently suggested selecting outfits a little more conservative from her wardrobe, but Mona paid him no heed.
Cincinnati was the last train stop before Lexington, and Mr. Deatherage wanted to give Mona a chance to get her bearings and fix herself up before arriving in the Bluegrass, but Mona ignored his suggestions. However, his opening came when the manager of the Netherland Hotel insisted Mona wear an evening gown when dining at the fashionable Palm Court.
Mr. Deatherage threw down the gauntlet. Either Mona purchase women’s clothing and have her hair coiffed, or he was leaving her to the devices of the Moon family by herself. He was tired of being embarrassed by Mona’s unconventional appearance, and worried she would be a laughing stock among her peers in Lexington. The matador pants had to go!
Mona’s clothes consisted of thrift shop finds or cheap native clothing purchased on her adventures. In other words, she had to make do with what she had. Besides, her work called for sturdy functional clothing and work boots. Fancy threads were just a waste of money, but that didn’t mean Mona didn’t appreciate beautiful apparel.
Realizing she could finally purchase quality clothing, Mona feigned offense and pouted until she was out of Mr. Deatherage’s view, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her drool at the thought of shopping. She bounded to the lobby and asked the clerk at the front desk where the swells shopped.
“Well, young lady, the women in society shop at an establishment called Gidding-Jenny. If you go out this hallway to the street, make two rights. You will see a sign for the dress shop. Can’t miss it.”
Mona thanked him and dashed out of the hotel. Before she knew it, Mona was lounging on a plush settee, sipping hot tea as models paraded the latest fashions for her approval.
Still not able to throw off her conservative spending habits, she settled on simple day frocks, blouses, sweaters, jackets, evening gowns, gloves, stockings, shoes, slips, dressing gowns, purses, and unmentionables of the finest quality, but only two of each. Even then, Mona thought she was being extravagant but relished the colors and textures of silk, satin, tulle, velvet, lace, and taffeta.
Triumphant, Mona returned to the hotel, trailed by a small caravan of stock boys loaned out by Gidding-Jenny, carrying the boon of parcels and boxes. Marching to her suite, she happened to glance in a hallway mirror and froze at the state of her hair. It was a blousy halo surrounding a red face peeling from a sunburn acquired in the Mesopotamian sun. She couldn’t help but frown at the condition of her calloused hands, highlighted by nails, rough-looking and chipped. Mona gave a little groan. Her hands certainly gave away the fact she made her living by manual labor, not that she was ashamed by any means, but her appearance betrayed she had been down on her luck. Mona certainly didn’t want to give her relatives this first impression.
Luckily, the hotel had a beauty parlor where Mona had her platinum hair permed and styled, nails painted, and enjoyed a soothing facial, which calmed the redness of the sunburn. And for the pièce de résistance, Mona had her face professionally made-up. Mona especially liked her lipstick choice, which matched the color of her nails—Jungle Red.
That evening she entered the two-storied Palm Court of the Netherland Hotel wearing a slinky, champagne-colored, backless, slipper satin gown, which outlined her curves leaving almost nothing to the imagination, causing men’s heads to swivel.
Even Mr. Deatherage did a double take before standing and welcoming Mona to his table. “My goodness,” was all the gentleman could utter, after clearing his throat. “My goodness.”
“Settle down, frat boy,” said a middle-aged woman wearing a black sequined hat placed jauntily on her head. The woman stuck out her hand. “Hello. My name is Wilhelmina Deatherage, but everyone calls me Willie. I’m Dexter’s wife.”
Mona shook hands with Willie while Mr. Deatherage scooted in Mona’s chair. Though she was surprised to see Mrs. Deatherage, she didn’t show it. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Dexter telegraphed me saying you might need help in the dolling-up department, making me think you were a Bug-eyed Betty, but from all the men staring, I think you’ve done okay on your own. You got some chassis—a regular Sheba. Not many women could wear a dress like that.”
“Thank you. I’ve known how to dress myself for a long time now.” Mona raised an eyebrow at Willie’s chatter.
“And your hair. You have the Moon hair. Platinum—just like Jean Harlow.”
“Who?” Mona asked.
“Jean Harlow. The famous movie actress. Her hair is like yours—that strange white. A curious color. Neither blonde nor gray and not really white. Platinum.”
Mona gave a confused look.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. You’ve been gone from the States a long time.”
“Yes, I have, but then I rarely go to the movies. I’m usually working.”
“Well, Jean Harlow is all the rage these days, and you are the spitting image of her.”
Mona smiled. “I must check Miss Harlow out and see one of her movies.”
“And your eyes. I see you have the Moon amber eyes. Dexter, why didn’t you tell me Miss Moon was so hotsy-totsy?”
Being used to strangers making comments about her hair and fair skin, Mona said, “Yes, I know the Moon family has a history of albinism. I certainly exhibit traits of it.”
“Must be,” Willie noted, staring at Mona’s hair “You have the it look. Simply the cat’s meow.”
Even in the restaurant’s dim light, Mona could see Mr. Deatherage was blushing. “Ignore my wife’s patter. She’s addicted to mystery novels, especially American hardboilers, and likes to talk like Sam Spade, or in off days, Peter Wimsey.”
“Peter Wimsey is a lord and British. Not American at all,” Willie said. She drew a monogrammed sterling silver cigarette case from her beaded purse, offering Mona a cigarette.
Mona politely refused.
Willie withdrew a cigarette, and by the time she held it to her lips, Mr. Deatherage had produced a gold plated lighter. “Did you finish your shopping, dear?”
“I bought a few things. That reminds me. Since I didn’t have any money, I had the store add the clothing bill to the hotel. I hope it’s all right. I wasn’t sure how much to spend, so I hope I didn’t go over my budget.”
Willie chuckled. “Honey, you can buy anything your little heart desires and more.”
“Now dear, let’s be more cautious saying such things to Miss Moon. I’ve seen plenty of heirs who squandered their wealth only to end up penniless and out on the street.”
“Oh, tosh. Miss Moon doesn’t look like a foolish young woman. Are you, honey?”
“I don’t think I’m a foolish person, although getting comfortable with spending money freely will take some getting use to—happily I might add.”
Willie inhaled deeply and exhaled a plume of smoke, which engulfed the entire table. Dexter Deatherage coughed and waved the smoke away from his face. His wife appeared not to notice. “I was very glad to have Dexter wire me to join the two of you. I missed him terribly while he was in New York, waiting for your ship to arrive, and I was curious to meet you. I’ve never met a woman cartographer before.”
“Well, you’ve seen me. What’s your take?”
“I was worried that you were a flash in the pan, one of those mawkish waifs always with their heads in books whom my poor Dexter was going to have to save every time he turned around.”
“But you don’t now?”
Willie stubbed out her cigarette and appraised Mona. “I think you will be able to hold your own with the Moon family.”
“Are they so vicious?”
“Your father was your grandfather’s favorite son, yet he was spurned when he married your mother without so much a second thought from your grandfather. How do I put this? Your aunt favors your grandfather.”
“I see.”
Dexter nervously tugged at his starched collar and quickly intervened to reassure Mona. “Now, Willie dear, you mustn’t utter such things. Miss Moon will think badly of her family before she even meets them.”
“Bully for her.”
“Please, Mr. Deatherage. Is there something I need to know? I would rather not walk into Moon Manor without having been briefed on every aspect of my inheritance.”
Willie leaned forward. “Your Aunt Melanie is contesting the will.”
“Does Aunt Melanie have a case?”
“Not really as long as you don’t give her any cause.”
“Meaning?”
“No gambling. No men. No scandalous behavior. There’s a morals clause in the will.”
“I wish you had told me earlier. I wouldn’t have bought such a bold dress,” Mona said, glimpsing down at her plunging neckline.
Willie teased, “Ignore Dexter on moral turpitude. Dexter is such a bluenose, he thinks spitting on the sidewalk is a crime.”
“It is,” Dexter complained, signaling to a waiter. “It spreads TB.”
Willie nudged her husband with her elbow. “See what I mean, Mona, but I love him, God help the poor sod.”
He smiled and blew a kiss to his wife before ordering appetizers. “I wish we could order a cocktail.”
Willie clutched Dexter’s hand reassuringly. “I think President Roosevelt intends to rid us of Prohibition.”
“Not if the Southern Baptists have anything to say about it,” Mr. Deatherage mumbled.
“You do know the new president is Franklin D. Roosevelt?” Willie asked.
“I may not know who Jean Harlow is, but I did keep up with national news. Even in Mesopotamia, there were radios,” Mona said.
“I guess you could drink your fill in Mesopotamia?” Willie said, taking a little silver flask out of her purse.
“Mesopotamians are Muslims. They don’t drink hard spirits,” replied Mona, refusing the flask.
“Pity,” Willie reflected while pouring hooch in her tea. She looked up at Mona’s confused expression. “A little giggle juice of my own. It’s good old Kentucky bourbon. Bootlegged, of course.”
“Ah,” was all Mona said.
Mr. Deatherage jumped in the conversation. “Liquor is one thing you don’t have to worry about. Moon Manor has a full compliment of wine and spirits. When your Uncle Manfred saw Prohibition was going to become law in 1920, he bought out entire liquor stores and went to local distilleries to purchase Kentucky bourbon. You know Kentucky used to be the country’s leading wine maker besides making the finest bourbon.”
“I did not,” Mona replied, unfolding her napkin. “Shall we order now?”
Willie held up her teacup. “First, let’s have a toast. Here’s to Madeline Mona Moon. May she overcome the prejudice, hatred, and backbiting, which are the traits of the Moon family and bring some fresh air into that stuffy old dynasty. Here’s to your success, honey.”
Dexter reluctantly clicked his water glass against the teacup and looked expectantly at Mona.
Mona smiled and held up her glass. “I’ll drink to that,” she said cheerfully, oh so happy her revolver was close at hand in her clutch purse.
If Willie Deatherage was correct in her assessment of the Moon family, her revolver might come in handy for the future.
Oh dear! What was she walking into?